Novi Vice
by Symmet
Summary: Conclusion to 'Vera Vice'. Michael/Sam - (Second in the Vice Series)


**AN: It should be noted that this is a sequel to the story "Vera Vice" and as such probably won't make sense without knowledge of that one known.**

* * *

He arrived when the brothers were leaning against the car, the Impala, Dean favoring a beer under the quiet afternoon sun.

For absolutely no reason, he chose to appear next to Sam.

The hunters, ever wary, startled. Then Dean snorted, "Hey, you gonna go ballistic on us? Or you cool now?"

Michael frowned at him. But this was honestly a better response than he'd anticipated. He ignored the urge to look at Sam, "I…no…" He sighed, "I am 'cool' now."

_How could he explain?_

"A great entirety of my grace was unavailable to me. I lacked not only control of my emotions but many emotions in general. My grace was… well you may think of it as similar to only having a part of your soul at any given time. What little I had of my grace was full of anger."

And it was still there, underneath. But he didn't say that, and it apparently went unnoticed in favor of surprise.

Sam was sharing a look with Dean.

"Damn," says Dean with a sigh, pulling a wallet out from his back pocket, "Sam, give this to Luce for me, will you?"

He gestures with a twenty.

Sam, looking both amused and affronted, "I'm not your messenger pigeon. Do it yourself," he says in fond annoyance.

Dean gives him an incredulous look, "How the hell else am I supposed to give it to him?"

Sam grins, "I don't know. Maybe pray? Like a normal person?"

Dean frowned, "I don't wanna pray to Satan."

"Excuse me," Michael finally interrupted, "What are you…?"

Dean blinked, "Oh. Luce bet me that you guys had more in common then we thought."

Sam snorted, "Why did you think you could bet the Devil and win, Dean?"

Dean shrugged defensively, stowing the twenty in his front pocket.

"Speak of the Devil," He said, eliciting a sigh from Sam, "Lucifer's really flipped his shit about you running off like that."

Sam winced, didn't look up at Michael, who pointedly didn't ask if Dean knew they had…?

When Michael failed to think of something to say to them, Sam added, still refusing to meet his eyes - not that he was looking at the human, either - "He's really worried, actually."

Michael decided they expected him to say something. Hesitantly, he said, "You have my permission to tell him I am…recovering."

Dean rolled his eyes, and Michael supposed he'd given an unsatisfactory answer, "Oh, geez, thanks your majesty. Why not tell him, yourself?"

Michael ignored the urge to fidget, "I am… not sure that would be a wise endeavor. I am still… liable to get upset."

Sam nodded, eyes finally flashing up to meet his, them both ignoring whatever came with it, "You need any more of Raphael's water?"

Michael did, but he was not ready to see any of his brothers.

"Perhaps at some point, but for the moment I am… content."

They stood, in semi-companionable awkwardness, before Michael suddenly realized.

"I do not understand. How could… you were missing your soul at some point?"

Sam shrugged, displeased, "Yeah. Happened a while back. Witch curse. Don't remember anything."

Something snarled at that deep within Michael, remembered days past when he had been the Guardian of guardians. And indeed, were the hunters not nothing more than guardians? They protected humans, and it was thus in Michael's nature to want to protect them.

Imperceptibly, Michael's grace hummed close, almost wrapping around them, wings to shield them from any danger that may befall them. Except, Dean, his true vessel, sensed it, blinking and squinting at the air for a moment before returning to his beer. And Sam's eyes flickered to a spot behind Michael for a second.

_oh._

Dean sighed, dramatically, "Ok, guys, this awkward silence has been great, but I actually have some stuff to do, people to check up on-"

Sam chuckled, "Missing Cas, already, are you?"

Which just made Dean choke on his last swig of beer and glare at is brother. With a loud clearing of his throat, Dean said, "Oh dearest me, Lucifer, Satan himself, please get your rich feather laden ass down-"

Michael decided himself unprepared. He grabbed Sam's wrist without a second thought.

_ah_, thinks Michael in the span of a millisecond, _shit._

There was literally no way he would be able to explain that in a logical manner. Lucifer's name had jump-started him, on instinct he had felt the urge to run - which he would do promptly.

But grabbing Sammuel's hand?

He felt annoyance at himself - a part of him was still upset with the human.

And the rest of him was shocked.

Even after surviving the ordeal of his grace returning, the boy was central to him in mind. _Why?_

And his grace had not returned all at once, no. It had poured in slowly, achingly. Agony had melted into him, and when he could think, he had wondered after the human.

In the span of several milliseconds it took to regret what he'd done, he wished he could withdraw his hand, if he acted quickly, he could get away with it.

But he didn't.

And so Sam whipped to face him with bright, mischievous eyes.

"I'm not…" He started to the elder Winchester, before deciding that it didn't matter, "Going." He said instead, hoping the look in Sam's eyes was truly permission and not him wishing it so.

He flew before Dean could give either of them a look.

He took them to the cave.

For a moment after he did, he regretted that, too, but it was not as if Sam could tell he'd spent several weeks recovering here.

He released Sam's hand promptly, when they landed, refusing to let himself linger.

Sam did a slow turn, took in the empty space. Michael almost apologized, but Sam had already headed towards the entrance. Michael realized it was freezing. Internally he cursed himself. _What was he doing?_

"Are we in Tibet?" Sam said suddenly, peering out at the snow laden area far around them.

Michael blinked, then walked up to stand beside him and look at the silent world around them.

"How did you know?" He said blankly, and Sam looked at him in surprise, then grinned.

It was a warm grin, unlike the cold and ice all around them.

"I don't… I just guessed." Sam laughed, and it was a lie to call silence golden when such a sound as that could be made.

Michael again cursed himself, because here he was spouting poetry.

"Should I take us elsewhere? I just went the first place that came to mind. But you are not dressed for-"

Sam waved him off, "Nah, it's fine. Why here, though?"

Michael shrugged, "I come here to think. To retreat."

He wondered if Sam could guess that he'd been here all this time.

Sam turned to regard the vast reach of the white around them.

"Lonely, though." He heared the hunter say softly to himself.

They stood and watched the nothingness for several moments.

Until Michael realized Sam was slowly turning blue. Unable to bring himself to wrap his arms around the human, his wings unfurled and gently cupped the the human invisibly, shielded him from the cruel, cold air through Michael's grace.

Except those eyes, green, a gentle green, had followed the curve of one of Michael's wings, wings he couldn't see. Shouldn't.

_Could he?_

But then the eyes had went back to the plains of snow, and Michael could have imagined it. Except he was an ArchAngel, and he didn't imagine things like that.

There was only one way to test it, Michael knew.

He drew the wings closer, tucked them until one almost brushed Sam's forearm.

Sam twitched, and Michael was just reveling in his small triumph, _aha! I knew it!_ when Sam, as the human was proving he liked to do, bowled him over.

Michael was just opening his mouth to ask Sam when soft fingers brush curiously through his grace.

His mind stops.

Sam's attention honed in on him, and suddenly the hands, gentle, so sweet, retreated, as if stung.

"Sorry!" Blurted Sam, mortified, as if he had done something unforgivable, tensing as if to escape.

Escape where?

And then Michael's brain unstuck and he'd reached out and grabbed Sam's arms to stop the human from fleeing.

"Can you _see_…" He whispered.

Sam seemed to have frozen up, "Sorry." He said again.

"Sam, _can you see_-"

"I can see you."

It caught Michael off guard again, not "_wings_" but "_you_" and it did something funny in his grace.

"Is that okay?" Sam asked warily, relaxing as Michael released him.

Michael suddenly felt self-conscious. His wings, battered by the Pit, he draws back, "they're really not-"

And even though he hadn't said, Sam somehow knows, because even as Micahel took a step back, he rushed forward, arms out-stretched, had caught the feathers under his palms, making Michael freeze because this is strange and surreal, if an angel could experience surreality.

They pause, like that, and then Sam, arms resting over Michael's shoulders, entrenched in feathered grace, ever so much taller, drops his head forward and lets his forehead meet Michael's.

Those eyes, infinitely open, could drown Michael.

"Hello, Michael." Sam says softly.

Michael relaxed under the human, all fierce soul and emotion, the pressure only an angel could feel, and it grounds him.

"Hello, Sam."


End file.
